Rebuilding Reality

Chapter Nineteen

Max's POV

The day I was kicked out is etched in my memory like a scar that never fades. It was my 18th birthday, a day that should have marked the beginning of adulthood and new opportunities, but instead, it signaled the start of a harsh, unforgiving reality. I wasn't even aware it was my birthday. I remember sitting on my battered mattress, my heart pounding as Linda and John delivered the news with cold, emotionless faces.

"You're 18 now, Max," John had said, his voice devoid of any warmth. "We're not responsible for you anymore."

Linda shoved a small, battered bag into my hands. "Pack your stuff. We don't want you here anymore. You're out of here first thing tomorrow."

I stood there, stunned, unable to process their words. "But... where will I go? What about Mason and Maya?" I asked, my voice shaking with fear and confusion.

"They're not your concern anymore," Linda snapped. "We want you gone. Worthless waste of space."

I remember the restless night before I was kicked out. I packed the few belongings I had and tossed and turned that whole night, anxious about what would happen once I was free from this nightmare.

The next morning, Linda gave me the tiniest food serving, rushed me to eat it, and she lead me out the front of the house. Sunlight, something I haven't seen in years.

The door closed behind me with a finality that echoed in my chest. I found myself standing on the porch, the cold morning air biting into my skin. My mind was a whirlwind of panic and disbelief. I had no idea how to survive in the world beyond the walls that had confined us for so long.

For the first few days, I wandered aimlessly through the city streets. I slept in parks, on benches, anywhere I could find some semblance of shelter. The nights were the worst, the cold seeping into my bones, my stomach gnawing with hunger. I had nothing to buy food with, I didn't know how I would make it. I knew from my studies I could survive up to a week without eating but only a few days without water. I made it a mission to hydrate, even if it was just a little bit of water.

I remember one particular night, huddled under a tree in a park. The city lights flickered in the distance, casting long shadows that danced around me. The wind howled, making the branches above me creak and groan. I wrapped my arms around myself, trying to conserve whatever warmth I could. My clothes were thin and inadequate against the biting cold.

I thought about Mason and Maya constantly, wondering if they were okay, if they missed me. The thought of them kept me going, pushing me to survive another day. I couldn't let them down.

After a few days, I stumbled upon a homeless shelter. It was overcrowded, and the smell of unwashed bodies and despair hung heavy in the air. But it was warm, and there was food, even if it was just a bowl of soup and some bread. I remember the first meal I had there; it felt like a feast after days of not eating. The soup was thin and watery, but it was hot, and it filled my empty stomach.

The people at the shelter were a mix of kindness and caution. Some offered advice and support, while others were guarded, focused solely on their own survival. I met an older man named George who had been on the streets for years. He had a kind smile and a weathered face that spoke of countless hardships. He took me under his wing, teaching me the ropes of street life.

"Stick with me, kid," he said one night as we huddled together for warmth. "You'll learn how to get by."

George showed me where to find the best spots for begging, how to avoid the dangerous parts of the city, and where the soup kitchens were located. He also taught me the importance of keeping a low profile and staying out of trouble. His guidance was invaluable, and I was grateful for his help.